


Heya, Neighbor!

by smileyfacegauges



Category: Silent Hill (Video Game Series), Silent Hill 2 - Fandom, Silent Hill 3 - Fandom, Silent Hill 4 - Fandom, Silent Hill Downpour, Silent Hill Homecoming
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst and Humor, Apartment AU, Bisexual Female Character, Bisexual Male Character, Bisexuality, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Happy, Humor, M/M, Older Man/Younger Man, Other, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Past Child Abuse, Past Sexual Abuse, Rare Pair, Rarepair, Trans Male Character, Transgender, beats me!!!!!!!, bisexual yearning, everyone lives in the same apartment building and shenanigans ensue, might have some pornography? might just have heavy suggestions?, this is just for shiggles idk what's gonna happen i'm just taking shots in the dark here, you'll find out when i do!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-24 22:40:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30079407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smileyfacegauges/pseuds/smileyfacegauges
Summary: Ashfield Heights Apartments is cheap, in a decent neighborhood, and fits Murphy Pendleton's budget just fine.
Relationships: James Sunderland/[REDACTED], Mary Shepherd-Sunderland/James Sunderland, Murphy Pendleton/Harry Mason, Travis Grady/Alex Shepherd
Comments: 12
Kudos: 11





	1. Lemme Get Your Deets

**Author's Note:**

> this is a little side project for when i need a palate cleanser during GOOMT! we got some rarepairs and some ??? and some 'oh yeah?' going on in here, and i hope y'all will enjoy reading what i've whipped up as much as i've enjoyed doing it.
> 
> all writing will be very lightly edited, so you're pretty much gettin' it raw and red. it's kind of the beauty of having a little side project to futz with!
> 
> take it easy, stay healthy and safe, and let's see what's the buzz over in Ashfield!

“.. ten, thirty.. three. Alright. So it was Murphy..?”

“Pendleton.”

“.. Pendle.. ton. That’s a good lookin’ name.”

“Uh, thanks. I had no say in it.”

“Heh. Only the lucky few of us do.”

“.. Iiii don’t know how a fetus c—“

“So what, uh, should I send you a text? Oh, shit, sorry; I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”

“No, no, it’s okay. Yeah, send me a text.”

He watched his upstairs neighbor’s thumbs carefully pick at the jumbled alphabet on his handheld screen. The phone seemed to be pretty large in his hands, though the hefty case protecting it was probably just fluffing up its size. A quick thought wondered if this was the modern version of buying a Ford truck tricked out and taller than a basketball player to make up for personal shortcomings.

This guy didn’t read that way, though.

“Hokay. Did you get it?”

Murphy grappled his vibrating phone out of the deep pocket of years-old jeans that, quite honestly, needed to be chucked out into the trash. They were loose; he’d weighed a lot more when he’d stripped for intake.

“Yeah. I got it.” A smirk preceded a soft laugh. Instead of sending a ‘Hi, this is __ !’ or smiley face or a lackluster ‘hey,’ Murphy stared down at a colored _The Far Side_ comic.

 _“Boneless Chicken Ranch”_ greeted the cursive sign marking the beginning of a winding road to a red barn in the distance. Slung over the sign and the wooden fence were two white chickens as lively as wet towels; and scattered on the lawn were other hens, prone and splayed like banana peels.

They were boneless chickens.

How does one get boneless chicken at the grocery? Why, from the Boneless Chicken Ranch, of course.

The visual gag got a snort-laugh out of Murphy. He shook his head, glancing at it again when his thumb reached for the command that’d lead him to adding this jokester to his contact list. Then he sniggered once more, shoulders bobbing, and his laughs turned breathy by the time he finally got the damn prompt ready for his input.

“Funny.”

“Good one, eh?”

“Yeah. Man. I haven’t seen a _Far Side_ comic in forever.”

“Aw, no kidding? That’s not a way to live.”

“Didn’t they stop running them in the newspapers?”

“Yeah, awhile ago. Lucky for you, the internet’s chock full of ‘em.”

“Heh. I guess. I haven’t really gotten the hang of the internet yet.”

“Shit. You and me both, buddy.”

He gave the shorter, stocky man a dubious eyeballing. “Yeah, I’m sure,” Murphy scoffed. “What, have you been living under a rock?”

His new acquaintance sucked in a loud, exaggerated breath through his beaky nose. “Mmmm.. no, I wouldn’t call it that,” he said, head tilted and peering up at the cracked ceiling like a bird. “Eeehh.. call it age or call it spite, maybe, but not living under a rock..”

Murphy chuckled. “Right. So what’s your name, again?”

The man’s dark brown eyes flicked to him. “Who’s asking?”

“The fuzz. The FBI, if I have to be more specific.”

“Can I see a badge?”

The younger man (possibly? compared to himself, this guy had greys by the dozen, so maybe he was older, though he didn’t want to make assumptions; that’s a good way to make an ass out of oneself, as the saying goes), whose face was scarred and scruffy, noisily drew an inhale through clenched teeth. “Ah, sorry,” Murphy replied, filled to the brim with dishonest apology. “I left it in my ass.”

Tilting his chin up he, the stranger whose name he’d _just_ gotten a few minutes ago and, like most people were wont to do, promptly forgot (which could’ve gotten him killed, in hindsight), scratched his somewhat fatty throat. “Hmm.. alright. I’m gonna wanna see it later. Don’t make me write a — excuse me, _handwrite_ an upsetting letter to the government about an FBI agent’s unprofessionalism.”

“I’ll dig it out and have it ready for you next time.”

“Mm. Promise?”

“Promise.”

“You wanna pinky swear on that one?”

He burst a chuckle. “Heh. Nah.”

“Heh. Next time.” The tenant’s arms folded over his chest. “Harry Mason.”

Murphy focused on typing in the appropriate boxes, took even _more_ care in saving it properly, and put his phone back into his pocket. (He’d forgotten to lock the device; it’d give him a good jump scare later.) “Alright. Thanks, Harry. Good to meet you.”

“And you,” Harry replied, quite the enchanted grin overtaking his face as soon as their hands joined for the customary farewell shake. “Jesus Christ. You’ve got a grip. Chickens are supposed to be boneless, not my fuckin’ hand.”

Awkwardness and embarrassment withdrew his hand. “Yeah.. sorry, I don’t—“

“Hey, I’m fuckin’ around. Sorry, bud; didn’t mean to put you on the spot. Sometimes the joke falls flat.”

“.. heh.. yeah, thanks..”

“Listen, I gotta head back in and ruin dinner, but I’ll see you around?”

“Yeah. Yeah, see you around, Harry.”

“See you around, Murphy. Take it easy, okay? But take it.”

“.. what’s that mean?”

Harry’s eyes darted to the side, his brow wrinkling low. “Good question. I dunno. My daughter showed me a picture of a guy saying it and I just liked the sound of it.” He met Murphy’s indecisive stare. “Which is a sure way to get myself into big trouble, but hey, what’s life without taking a few risks?”

“.. yeah. It’s a good point.”

He shrugged. “I’ll take it. I’ll see you around, buddy.”

“Yeah. I’ll see you around, Harry.”

Murphy waited to hear the deadbolt lock before he walked away.


	2. A Little Rundown of the Run Down

The other residents of Ashfield Heights were friendly enough. Every basket came with a few bad apples and this was no exception, however. Some older guy named Richard who dressed like he was going to work and wore some dumbass tie everyday was one of those bruised apples. Murphy didn’t care for him and the feeling was mutual.

There was a young shut-in of sorts named Henry that he had yet to meet. The nice girl next door to this elusive tenant - Eileen - told Murphy about him. “He’s a sweet guy,” she’d said. “Just shy.”

He could understand that.

The superintendent was also kinda odd. Frank Sunderland dressed like a retiree - golf sweater, khakis, loafers, the whole shebang - and kept his white hair tidy. He muttered to himself and complained about his back the moment he started sweeping. There wasn’t anything Murphy could name off the top of his head that gave him that wary feeling about Mr. Sunderland, and that alone was enough to make him uneasy.

No housekeeper had been hired to do any cleaning so it was left to the tenants. Thankfully, it seemed enough of them cared about the building.

There was a handyman of sorts, though. Frank had a son, James; a tall man reaching six foot six, Murphy guessed. Blond hair, green eyes, sharp jaw, and a mile-long stare that gave the convict the willies. He was married to a brunette small and sweet named Mary. They were like a kitten and a Mastiff. But James seemed to know his way around plumbing and small fixes, though he couldn’t rightly know how well just yet.

Murphy guessed the Sunderlands had a genetically weird vibe about them.

As any communal living situation goes, his neighbors upstairs and downstairs were a mixed bag of tricks, as well as treats. Mary’d asked if he’d met Alex yet, which he had not, nor had he met Travis, Heather (Harry’s daughter, he learned), Claudia (a name she paired with a polite wince; Claudia probably wasn’t very popular around here), Vincent (another that Mary wasn’t too fond of), and a couple other names he couldn’t remember.

Murphy wasn’t racing to get to know everyone, anyway. He’d only moved in a week ago and it’d taken that long to bump into these locals thus far. Like a few others here, he wanted to lay low and go about his business. That didn’t necessarily mean that he wasn’t going to not be congenial, of course.

After another hard day’s work down at the auto repair shop, Murphy slugged into his apartment and dropped his keys onto the floor. They were _supposed_ to land on one of the three white hooks nailed to the wall, but nothing in life could be easy. Once he apprehended them and put them where they belonged, he braced one hand on the wall to half-toe, half-properly unlace his boots and shake them off his hot, aching feet.

He hopped about on one foot and again had to catch himself on the wall. Taking off his boots _and_ sweaty, gross socks could be loads easier if he’d just taken a seat to do it, but why, when the closest chair was aaaalll the way over _there?_ Peeling off his socks, he wiggled and fanned his bare toes, scuffing them on the tread-trailed carpet to dry them on the trip to and from the laundry basket - which was further away from the chair once in question.

The wobbly fridge door jarred bottles of condiments and booze when he opened it. Murphy gazed distastefully at the takeout boxes in plastic bags, half-eaten muffin poorly rewrapped bunched plastic wrap, making its sealing useless, and a fruit salad tray that was sticky from the watery juices the fruit array bathed in.

The freezer had Hot Pockets and frozen corn dogs. So many minutes later, and Murphy was on the couch with his dinner of champions. He propped his feet up on the milk crate pretending to be a coffee table, took a swig of beer before tucking it up against the couch for safety, and turned on the TV to watch some _The Price Is Right_ reruns.

This would be his new normal. He could definitely get used to it.


	3. We Got Some Jokers Here, Eh?

Murphy met Travis coming in from Home Depot. He knew it must’ve been him - there could never be _any_ doubt in anyone’s mind that the guy was a trucker. The guy had the look right down to a T; it was exquisite, really. Travis was leaving the building, fiddling with his keys, and looked up just in time to see the man approach.

Travis quickly caught the door with his foot to keep it open. His smile was like goddamn sunshine. “Heya there!” he greeted, the warmth bright in his eyes. Murphy already detected a southern accent in him. He smiled.

“Hey.”

“Didn’t mean to let the door hit’cha on the way in!” Oh, that was one hell of an Alabama drawl. “Looks like you went on a shopping spree. Good for you.”

“Yeah, a little bit,” Murphy chuckled, moving into the threshold. He sensed Travis wanted a chit chat, and he was in the mood to meet a neighbor. “I decided to treat myself.”

“Well, good for you!” Travis said again, beaming. “You workin’ on a project?”

“Of sorts. I got a few things going to keep myself occupied.”

The other man chuckled. “Ooh, you got the heart. One project is never enough.”

“Heh. It’s a human downfall.”

“One’f the better ones.”

“I’d say. I’m Murphy,” said that exact man, transferring his bags to his left so he could shake with his right. “I’m—“

“Oh, _you’re_ Murphy! Pleased to finally meet’cha!” Travis exclaimed, eagerly taking the offered hand. His enthusiasm clapped their palms together and bounced solid grips. “I’ve been hearing about you! You’ve been here a few weeks? already, or so?”

Murphy broadly smiled. He liked Travis, and he definitely saw why anyone who mentioned him spoke of him so fondly. The man made himself awfully difficult to dislike, and his sunny demeanor was infectious. “Yeah, just shy of two months.”

“How’re you settling in? You get to meet everyone? I think it’s a bit of a shame that we don’t do welcome parties,” the trucker sighed, adjusting his distinguishing hat by its rolled brim. Murphy couldn’t understand why men distorted their hats like that; he thought it’d defeat the purpose of keeping the sun out of their eyes. He watched Travis squeeze the brim tight. “But that’s just fine. I guess it’s more fun to run into people and say your hellos then.”

The convict chuckled. “Yeah, I like it. It’s like fitting a new piece in the puzzle.”

Good god, and Murphy didn’t know Travis could beam brighter. “Whaddya know, it sure is! Hey, I like that,” he added, approvingly wagging his finger in the air. “Fittin’ a new piece into the puzzle. You’re sharp! You do any writing?”

“Pfft, no,” laughed the other. “The best writing I do is making out checks.”

“Have—“

“I did meet Harry. I picked up one of his books the other week but haven’t gotten around to reading at all.”

Travis pocketed his hand in an aged, insulated vest. It looked straight out of the 70s with its beige collar and front, with dark navy strips on the shoulders. Murphy wondered if it’d been a hand-me-down, or if he found it at a secondhand store. There was no way Travis was any older than thirty-seven, so it had to be one of those two. It suited him, anyway.

“I read a couple of his books on the road,” the trucker was saying. “A’course, not while _driving,_ heh, but at rest stops and the like. They’re not too bad!”

“He writes, uh, science fiction or something?”

“Uhhh yeah, somethin’ like that. I can’t describe them for myself, so you’re gonna have to find that piece to put down.” Travis clicked his tongue and stepped onto the sidewalk, his hand still propping the door by its frame. “I see your bags’re getting heavy. I’ll leave you to it. It was nice meetin’ you, Murphy.”

“You too. I’ll see you around.”

“You betcha! Maybe we can grab a couple a’beers one night. I’ll see ya.”

“Alright, see ya, Travis.”

Murphy looked over his shoulder when the glass door closed to watch Travis stroll away. He was jauntily twirling his key ring around his finger, and Murphy imagined he was whistling, too. Shrugging himself, he went to the elevator and lit up the dingy old button. It was nice to meet a neighbor, especially one like Travis.

He looked up at the digital numbers descending to L. Yeah; it was kinda nice here. The building had seen better days years ago, sure: the environmental upkeep was sub-par, the coarse blue carpet beige and heavily abused by tread fix, and the molding spanning the walls so scratched up that it looked like cats went haywire on them.

Murphy stepped into an elevator in dire need of affection and pushed a yellowed button so dirty it was all but opaque. The car jolted before its ascent, humming all the way to his floor. It rattled before it landed hard, screeched the doors open, and the convict exited. As usual, no one was out and about mingling in the hall, so he made it peacefully to his door.

Getting sorted out was a quick job. The fridge gave him the option of cold pizza, the sandwich he’d made to take to work and abandoned in forgetfulness, some ingredients that meant he’d actually have to _cook_ (and no way was he going to do that right now), and leftover Thai.

The microwave languidly spun the takeout box, humming away, while Murphy dug out his phone. He propped himself up against the counter and decided it was time to respond to his new friend.

=

_That’s a good one. Where’d you find that?_

=

He stared at the small window and its netted screen that reminded him of pixels.

The timer counted down seconds that took _forever_ to pass as his hunger grew. Luckily, a distraction saved him from obsessing over the microwave, and unlocked his vibrating phone.

==

**_On the dark web. It’s a fascinating place. You wouldn’t BELIEBE the Calvin and Hobbes collections._ **

**_*beleive_ **

**_*believe_ **

**_Jesus Christ! Guess it serves meek by by talking about he dark web._ **

**_Holy fuck. You’re a smart man, you understand what I’m getting at._ **

==

Murphy grinned, softly laughing along to Harry’s failures. Technology these days sure did thrive on user frustrations by its own, unforgiving passive-aggressiveness. He was definitely not immune to its tricks.

=

_I can put two and two together. What’s the dark web?_

_  
_=

**_Never mind that; I’ve spoken too much skews do._ **

**_*ALREADY!_ **

**_Fuck me! How did it even get that from trying to type ‘already’?!_ **

==

Three loud, obnoxious beeps announced that Murphy’s food was hot. Murphy set the phone down to retrieve the sweating, flimsy styrofoam box and rummage for a fork. The microwave door got slammed shut, and he commenced stirring and folding the pad thai to ensure equal heat distribution.

As he did this, he continuously glanced at his phone, anticipating another text. When one didn’t appear, he closed it and took it with him to the couch to hang out with the TV and stuff lunch into his face like it was constantly on the verge of leaping out of his hands and running away. This subconscious fear and habit was onebirthed from his stint in prison. There was an incredibly high chance he’d never grow out of it.

Some hours later, his phone alerted him to another text from Harry:

=

**_Hey bud, you hungry?_ **

==

Murphy pursed his lips and thought about it.

=

_Yeah I could eat._

==

**_If you could, you would, so you will. How’s breakfast for dinner sound?_ **

=

_Not bad._

==

**_Great. There’s a 24/6 lambs that opened up off the freeway._ **

**_*25/7 I’m found to throw this thing out the window_ **

**_*24/7 That’s it. well be communicating by pigeon from now on._ **

=

Murphy had a good, breathy chuckle about it. This poor guy couldn’t catch a break.

=

_Is there someone I can call to help you out? Beginning to get worried here, Jarry._

_Harry_

_Oops it’s doing it to me, now!_

==

**_Ah, shit! It’s contagious. Sorry to have dragged you down with me._ **

**_=_ **

_I hope you’re sorry._

==

**_Super duper cross my heart and hope to die, sorry of sorties._ **

=

_I’ll try to believe you._

==

**_I’m a better liar over text than I am in person. Appreciate the lies I tell you while you can’t tell._ **

=

_Omah._

_==_

**_Omah, glad we’re in agreement. See you downstairs in 15?_ **

=

_Omah._

==

What a fucking dad.

Seventeen minutes later, Murphy stepped out into the lobby. Harry was waiting by the row of metal, vertical mailboxes built into the wall. Murphy’d stopped to read the surnames before on peeling stickers and behind aged plastic that was too thin and short to house some names. The scrawls interested him the most; he thought of penmanship like a personality trait. It had to match the person - even their appearance. So far, their individuality connected the dots just fine.

Harry had a nice, warm smile ready for him.


	4. Witty In Pink

Murphy learned Harry was a widower, and not from his own mouth. It was Mary who let it slip in the conversation about marriage, wives, husbands, and sweethearts they’d gotten into. Invited into the Sunderland home by Mary herself, the convict was treated to coffee, homemade cinnamon buns, and lovely chit chat.

(“James is usually gone by early morning,” she’d sighed. “He has a main job as a mechanic. Working around here is his second job, and he really only does it because of Frank,” was how she explained her lonely mornings and subsequent invitation. She’d caught Murphy on his way to the mail, and he was all too glad to oblige.)

Her coffee and cinnamon rolls were _amazing._

She looked appropriately meek and guilty when she gave him that surprise. “Oh, whoops,” Mary chuckled lightly, smoothing down her skirt as she looked away. “I thought you’d know that by now.”

‘By now’ she meant ‘you’ve lived here for half a year, so how do you not know?’. Murphy shrugged. “Just never came up.”

“Funny.. somehow I thought it would.” He caught her glance before he could ask why, as she continued, “Harry’s a chatterbox.”

“Oh, I already figured that out. A week ago, actually, so funny you mention that.”

The sarcasm was humorous and taken well.

“I don’t know much about James,” Murphy started, lacing his fingers around his mug. It was a pretty one, probably found at a department store. Tall, painted in lines and flowers, its inside pink. (Mary must have quite a say in decorating around here. He figured that one out the moment he stepped in; guess it extended to kitchenware. Judging by the white serving platter and its cute, simplistic flowers and leaves dancing on the trim, he was onto something.)

“Not a lot of people know anything about James,” the aforementioned’s wife smiled. “I’m still learning new things about him every day.”

Murphy hummed. “Huh. That’s interesting.”

“That’s what most people say when I share that.”

Her guest shot her a smirk. “What do some people say when you mention that, then?”

“They say, ‘oh’.”

He liked Mary.

“James is an odd character, sure,” Mary smiled. “He’s a little quiet - yes, that’s an understatement,” she said to Murphy’s quickly lofted brows. She knew that expression well. “But he’s a good man. And when he talks, he _talks.”_

“Hard to imagine. Another one you hear often, I’ll bet.”

“Murphy!” she chirped excitedly. “That’s so spooky! It’s like you already know me. Are you in my head? Get out! That’s not very gentlemanly of you to listen to a lady’s thoughts.”

Oh, he _definitely_ liked Mary.

“So what’s it take to get him to talk?” he asked. “I’d like to hear what he’s got to say.”

She sighed. _“That_ , I can’t tell you. He—“

“Too much of a trade secret?”

Mary’s sly smile told him she was getting to like him, too. “Oh, well,” she said airily, smoothing down her skirt again. “You’ve caught me in a good mood.. so I think I can share a thing or two.”

“I’m all ears.”

“Well.. for being a mechanic, he’s not much for talking about cars,” she started. “Probably because he works on them all day. I don’t know.”

“It’d make sense.”

“Aren’t you a mechanic?” Mary asked, brows gently knitting.

Murphy chuckled and humbly shrugged. “Yeah. I’m also not a car guy. I like working on them, but not sitting around going through models and classics and all that.”

“Hm. That might be something you two have in common.”

“I think we’re gonna be buddies.”

Mary had such a nice laugh, Murphy thought. James sure found a diamond in the rocks. “He’s a sweet guy, honestly, Murphy,” she smiled warmly, undoubtedly fond of her husband. “That creepy exterior is just how he is.”

He nodded. “I believe you. I know some big, tough, scarred, tattooed men that are the sweetest guys on the planet. And they got that deadpan, too. Nah,” he agreed, sifting his weight nice and snuggly into the overstuffed, pastel (pink, of course) couch. “I learned not to judge a book by its cover, ratty and beat up as it is.”

Murphy found his host to be gazing at him like he were made of gold given as a gift. “Like you.”

The convict smiled softly. “Like me. I guess.”

“I’m glad to hear that from you, Murphy,” Mary replied in a way that sounded not just heartfelt, but sad. She reached for a sticky bun to replace the one that had disappeared under mysterious circumstances on her plate. “A lot of people don’t get James; and I’ve heard a lot of people with your same opinion too, but then don’t treat him like they’d meant it.”

Inspired, Murphy leaned in to select a second fat, gooey pastry for himself. “Liars are some pretty bad people.”

When he sat back and looked up at her again, she had the most genuinely grateful and fire hearth warmth Murphy had ever seen on a person; it took his breath away.

“We’re all liars at some point, Murphy; what matters is what our lies are, and how it affects people around them. You’re a good liar, too, but from what I’ve seen of you so far.. I think I like the way you lie.”

That was a statement that Murphy didn’t know how to respond to. They lapsed into a heavy, contemplative lull, of which he spent most of its time watching Mary pick at the cinnamon roll to try to decide where she’d like to bite first. After she did, holding out her pinky with elegance that contrasted the unavoidable messy, ungraceful chomp into the sticky dough, Murphy looked down at his own.

Turning it around this way and that to do his own scholarly study of where _he_ ought to start, he took the embarrassment of needing to rip off more than he’d intended to chew. While he dealt with that (and there’s no polite way to fumble, madly chew, and stuff the thick tail his mouth had grown), he thought about what Mary said.

She had a point - a good one - and he felt relieved about it. They continued to chat and laugh for an hour longer they’d expected to. Mary made her apologies and tactfully shooed Murphy out the door, but not without a parting gift of two more of her award-worthy rolls for the road. Thanks and farewells (“We’ll do this again sometime!” “Well, you know how to bribe a man, so I’ll see you around soon!”) ensued, then Murphy went home.

He set the tinfoil wrapped buns on the counter. His stomach was full and vaguely nauseous from the all-too-generous white, cavity-friendly glaze, but he’d stick it out like the happy soldier he was. A smile crossed his lips, and he turned to look out at his barebones man cave he paid rent to keep.

This apartment, this building, was a goddamn priceless marble and gold palace outfitted with people who liked to like. He’d never forget prison and its occupants who hated the world, hated each other, hated themselves, and the guards who got their giggles in having an excuse to beat and use them as fight dogs. There were bad apples amongst the fresh and crisp, but Murphy knew they held no candle to what he _really_ knew about rot and worms in their cores.

The convict sighed, slapped the counter twice in finality, and went to find the coveralls he’d left in a pile of a new life and stable work on the floor of his bedroom. It was time to go fill his time elbows-deep in car guts to pay the bills, and do so with a full stomach, and a hopeful future.


	5. At Ease, Soldier!

Alex was something of a treat, too.

He found Alex by the car park, all curled up sitting on the concrete and his back against the wall. Murphy didn’t even see him until a ‘hey!’ and sharp, attention-getting whistle got him to stop. He looked over, somewhat incredulous by the kinda rude way to beckon someone’s attention and time.

“Hey! Got a light?”

As a matter of fact, he did. Annoyed but not slighted enough to comply, Murphy dug around in his pocket and strolled over to toss it. Alex caught it in both hands, immediately clicking on the flame, and starting the cigarette’s race to the butt. Murphy caught the lighter in one hand.

“Thanks.” The smoke stuttered from being exhaled during speech. “Appreciate it, man.”

“Yeah. No problem.”

Murphy gave him a nod, then began to walk off. He got maybe ten steps away when he was called after. “Hey! Are you the new guy?”

Looking over his shoulder, he partially turned towards him, bouncing his keys in his fingers. He intended it as a sign of, ‘I’m trying to go somewhere’ but decided to provide a bit of information to humor him. “Yeah. Couple months ago.”

“Sucks I haven’t seen you before.”

“Yeah, uh, I guess we keep missing each other.”

“Yeah.” The kid sucked in a drag, and flicked his ash. He pulled his knees up to his chest and flopped his forearms down on them. “You goin’ to work?”

“Got some errands to run.”

“Ah, nice.” Murphy nodded, and barely got to pivot. “What floor you live on?”

“Uh.. two.”

“Cool! I live on two, too. I wonder why we haven’t seen each other yet.”

“Yeeeaahh, well, things happen.”

“Yeah.” He sniffed, and snapped the cigarette with his thumb. “M’Alex.”

“Murphy.”

“You Irish?”

“Somewhere, I guess.”

Alex grinned a little. “Heh.” He tilted his head, peering up at him, his eyes darting back and forth as he inspected him. “You’re a convict, right?”

That hit a nerve, of course, and Murphy sighed hard. “Yeah.”

“I’m a soldier.” Commencing another blatant study that Murphy certainly wasn’t here for, Alex continued, “Iraq.”

Murphy sounded a lot more huffy and impatient. “Cool. Welcome home.”

“Thanks.”

“I gotta go, man.”

“Shit! That’s right. I’ll see ya later.”

“Yep. See you around.”

He went to his car, disappointed that his neutral mood had soured a bit. That wasn’t a good first impression. Murphy sighed deep and hard, the drop into the driver’s seat whooshing it out of him. Shaking his head, he got all sorted out, turned up the Dropkick Murphys’s _The Meanest of Times_ album on CD, and set off on his rounds.

When he got home some four hours later, Alex was _still_ sitting at the wall where he’d left him. Still put off by their rocky start, Murphy tried to quickly pass by him - maybe Alex wouldn’t notice if he was fast enough - and thought was in the clear until a ‘hey, Murphy!’ had to stop him. He wasn’t far enough to pretend he hadn’t heard him, so Murphy was obligated to face the soldier.

“How’d your errands go?”

“Fine.”

Eyeballing Murphy’s stuffed plastic bags, Alex looked curiously up at his floor-neighbor. “Grocery store?”

God. Really? “Yeah.”

“Whaddya usually get?”

Okay, this kid was really getting obnoxious. He’d have to find a way out fast; he’d figure out navigating him later. “Usual stuff. Frozen things. Y’know.”

Alex bobbed his head. “You look like that kinda guy.”

Murphy didn’t really know how to take that. He searched for a response, but Alex beat him to the punch. “No offense.”

“None taken?”

“I mean it in a good way!”

He furrowed his brows. “How do you mean it in a good way?”

“Y’know, like..” Alex tipped his head to and fro, shrugged. “Like.. keeping it easy.”

Yeah, Murphy really didn’t know how to talk to this guy, or even figure out what he thought about him. “I guess.”

“Yeah.”

“Hey, Alex, I gotta go put this stuff in the fridge,” Murphy claimed, showing him his bags as proof. “So—“

“Oh, yeah! Sorry. I’ll see ya, man.”

“Yep, you too.”

Finally getting his out, Murphy took it by storm. He was _so close_ \- then Alex had an afterthought. “Hey!” the guy yelled at him again. Murphy’s head dropped back, sighed a curt sigh, and glared over at the wall occupant.

“Yeah?”

“Did you go to a war, too?”

He squinted. “Why would I’d’ve gone to war?”

Alex zig-zagged his finger over his face. “You’ve got scars.”

Murphy took his eyes to their sides, then at Alex. “Yeah. I know.”

Nodding, his forearms laid on his knees once more. “War’s hard, man. It’s crazy to see it on people.” A beat passed where they stared at one another. “You gotta heal, Murphy! You’re out of the trenches, but you’re not outta the battalion.”

Murphy slowly scrunched his face. “What’s that mean?”

Alex gave him a knowing smile. “You’re a soldier. You know what I mean.”

He stared at the army resident, nodded a salute back, and entered the lobby.

The plastic bags crunched and hissed and poofed as he balled them up. ‘Ball’ might be too generous of a word - more like, ‘trying to re-fold an inflatable pool that expertly defies the laws of physics’. The mass was already expanding when he tossed into the corner of the counter. His plastic bags drawer, already beyond capacity no thanks to the lazy man’s stuff-n-shut-it-before-it-can’t-close technique was just a reach away, but Murphy saved the task for future Murphy.

He took a soggy box that he’d just stored in the freezer out. Flopping it with a great slap onto the counter, he ripped it open with a symphony conductor’s flourish. The microwave soon hummed its song, and in the meantime, Murphy chose a beer and took a couple frothy swigs.

Dinner dinged done. The couch sagged and whined under his weight. For a scant moment the news tried to inform him of the world but was shunned in the name of _Mork and Mindy_ reruns.

His Hot Pockets and classic Robin Williams struggled to distract him from what Alex had said. _You’re outta the trenches, but not out of the battalion!_ What the _fuck_ was that supposed to mean? he asked himself. Murphy had no idea how to translate that. That Alex was kind of weird, he’d already decided. Weird, loud, and couldn’t take a hint. And, apparently, he was an Iraq war veteran.

Okay, so _maybe_ there was a reason for his personality. Murphy couldn’t use that without feeling guilty and disrespectful, though. That was a pretty awful generalization. So he immediately took it back, disappointingly pursing his lips at himself, and squeezed the sides of the Hot Pocket. It opened like a snake’s maw, showing Murphy its slab of heated probably-not-actual-pepperoni and oily, unmelted cheese. He made it ‘talk’, then took another bite.

Alex unsettled him in a way. What way, he didn’t have words for, only feelings. The interaction played in his mind like a problem from a high school textbook. He’d eventually toss it aside with a mental ‘whatever’ and focus on the fuzzy vintage comedy.

Well, that was another one down. So now it was Alex, Mary, (did James count? he only really _saw_ him, but didn’t have a word yet, so.. nah, probably not), Travis, Harry, Frank, Eileen, Richard (if a grumble and intentionally caught shoulder fit the requirements), and.. was that all so far? Murphy washed his dinner down with a gulp from the bottle. Eh, he wasn’t keeping count, or a roster, or whatever. .. eeehhh, who cares. Everyone he’s met so far hasn’t been too bad. They’re likable people (Richard, don’t interact). They seem to like him, too.

Yeeeeeheeeup, his life was getting back on track. He had all he needed.

His phone buzzed. Murphy squinted at the screen. A reminder for his visitation with Charlie tomorrow reminded him ah, shit, he _did_ have a visitation with Charlie tomorrow. He sighed hard and sad. Maybe a second beer might help with those complicated feelings he was having right then, and he’d popped off the cap when the device buzzed again.

It buzzed again after that. Murphy swallowed his beer, dropped onto the couch, and looked at who was getting all up in his ass.

Today’s comic showed a kid with a pointy sword chasing the family dog. Z’s covered nearly every inch of the house, including his father reading in the chair (and his book), his mother’s back where she was occupied in the kitchen, the cat at her feet, and the dog running away from him.

_Although troubled as a child, Zorro, as well known, ultimately found his niche in history._

==

**_Do you think we have Zorro to thank for the term ‘catching out zzzzz’s”?_ **

_==_

_According to the comic I think the better way to say it is ‘cutting our zzzz’s.’_

==

**_I think that’s say the opposite; sounds more like your sleep is getting interrupted._ **

==

_What are you, a doctor?_

==

**_I can be whatever I want to be, Murphy. Hangs what they said in elementary school. It’s one of the first things taught. I’m just gonna skip ahead of all that boring medical scholarship stuff and get straight to the finish line._ **

**_I don’t know if you noticed, not being a doctor yourself, that I’m very technical about it._ **

==

_I’m glad gig said something because it all went straight over my head._

==

**_You’re forgiven._ **

==

_thanks._

==

**_No problem. I never give up the opportunity to educate. That’s be immoral and against the Hippocratic Oayh._ **

==

_Ive never been humbled like this before._

==

**_Life is full of new experiences. Take it easy, but take it!_ **

==

_Omah._

===

Murphy smiled, and gently tossed the phone to the far side of the couch.


End file.
